


Immortal

by booksblanketsandtea



Series: /r/WritingPrompts [1]
Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: /r/WritingPrompts, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-11
Updated: 2016-11-11
Packaged: 2018-08-30 07:26:34
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 709
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8523940
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/booksblanketsandtea/pseuds/booksblanketsandtea
Summary: No one can escape death and immortality isn't real.Not in the way you think.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt from /r/WritingPrompts.
> 
> "A friendship between a time traveler and an immortal. Wherever the time traveler ends up, the immortal is there to catch him up to speed."
> 
> So of course my mind went to Arthur and Merlin - though of course it can be read as original characters not related to Merlin as well if you would prefer.

[A friendship between a time traveler and an immortal. Wherever the time traveler ends up, the immortal is there to catch him up to speed.](https://www.reddit.com/r/WritingPrompts/comments/5c990o/wp_a_friendship_between_a_time_traveler_and_an/)

 

* * *

 

Immortality isn't what everyone believes it is. You can't escape death - not in the way people think. Trust me, I've tried - I've lived through the ages and every time I glance myself in the mirror there's a new line on my face, more grey in my hair. Doesn't matter if I'm going backwards or forwards - time still passes.

I don't know when I first met Arthur - likely I'd come across him many times before I realised it was the same person I was talking to. He's different every time, you see. Well, in appearance, at least - though sometimes only minutely - but in all the ways that matter, he's still _Arthur_. Still loud and brash, arrogant but with the kindest heart I've ever come across. I should have realised sooner - somehow his grin always quirks the exact same way, and his eyes flash with the same knowing glint no matter the shade.

The first time I _remember_ meeting him - and knowing for certain, in hindsight, that it was him - it was 1998. He was working as a nurse in the most run down hospital I had ever had the misfortune to step into, and he flashed me a harried grin as he rushed through his introduction, efficiently cleaning and stitching the gash along my hand. I remember a flash of recognition settling into my stomach as I met his (then blue) eyes, and I had known in that instant that, somehow, I knew him. It was only a few months later in 1859 that I spotted him talking on a street corner in New York city, a handful of people loitering around listening to him speak out against the latest taxation problems (some things never change, no matter the year). I stopped and joined the small gathering, and he smiled when he caught my eye - his eyes were brown and he was shorter, but it was undeniably _him_. When all the others had wandered away, I stayed, and he greeted me with a handshake, his hand warm in mine as he introduced himself again. He still does that - no matter the year, it's always the same. A brief handshake, a grin. His name.

(that changes sometimes, as well - I'll never let him live down the lifetime he went as _Archibald_. He bears my teasing with good-natured grumbling.)

"So, have you been here before?" He asks.

He asks that quite often as well - I don't know why. No matter my answer he catches me up - tells me what's happening, what to look out for, things and people of interest. Sometimes we go our separate ways immediately. Sometimes he takes me out for dinner, and we catch up.

Over time we've discussed everything under the sun - politics, religion, romance, food, travel (that last one certainly took more time than the other, more mundane subjects). But in all the lives he's lead and in all the time I've experienced, he won't tell me when _he_ first met _me_. His eyes go sad around the corners and he changes the subject quickly.

Arthur is not what I would call subtle - I doubt he ever has been or ever will be.

His eyes follow the canyons time has carved onto my face. His hands, in some lifetimes, card through my slowly greying hair with something like fear. In the 60s (1860's, that is) his hands are distant and careful. In the 2060's they're greedy and reverent. Some lifetimes he doesn't kiss me. Some life times, he does. Some life times, he has a wife and children. Some life times, we miss each other by weeks, and I'll find his name in the obituaries. Time passes. Back or forward, it passes. He never checks how old I am when we find each other.

Arthur has lived more lifetimes than I can imagine, and I have seen more of time than I ever thought possible.

My hair greys. The lines on my face deepen. Arthur watches, and in every lifetime his eyes hold the same knowing glint.

No one can escape death and immortality isn't real.

Not in the way you think.

 


End file.
